Could there really be dogs, thousands if what Patsy said was right, trapped in barns and sheds, who never got to see, or smell anything outside? Willow shuddered as she trotted along, trying to shake the feeling of sadness she felt for all those poor, lonely dogs.
But the feeling wouldn’t go away, and the questions kept pushing into her mind. What did the dogs do all day? Where did they go to the toilet? What did they eat? Willow wondered if they had any toys. She didn’t think they did if what Patsy told Tom was true. How could a dog be happy with no toys? And if they had no toys, did this mean they never played games? The dogs were prisoners in tiny dark spaces, with concrete floors and walls. No soft beds. No beds at all. Just the floor with some dirty sawdust Patsy had said. No cuddles… no love… no-one who cared for them.
Then there were the other places, and this made Willow feel very sad indeed, she’d heard Patsy whisper to Tom, places where dogs lived for years in wire cages. Cages? Surely Patsy had that wrong. How can dogs live in cages?
Willow’s mind was buzzing as she walked along, thinking about the mums of the puppies never getting to leave the barns. So sad that they were left all alone after their puppies were taken away. She thought back to when she left her mum and came to live with Patsy. She remembered taking one last look back and seeing her mum being cuddled tightly by Emily, with Abbey crouching on her other side, gently stroking her mum’s ears, dropping kisses on her beautiful, furry head. She hated to think that her mum would have been left all alone, with no-one to love her when her puppies had gone off to their new homes. How awful for all the mums in the puppy farms if that was the case. How terribly alone and sad they must feel.
As Willow’s thoughts jumped about in her busy brain, her heart was heavy with sadness for all the dogs who suffered in the world. She could hear Patsy and Tom chattering a few foot steps behind her, and she felt glad that she was loved by them; loved, safe and free to enjoy her life.
All thoughts of puppy farms and sad dogs flew from her young mind, as she arrived at the park and ran full speed through the wrought iron gates, leaving Patsy and Tom to follow behind. Willow never hesitated to enter the park, she felt as at home there as she did in her own garden; it was where she could hang out with her friends and today was extra exciting as most would be there for her party. Straight away, across the grass, she spotted her friend Sookie waiting for her. Racing across the damp, slightly muddy ground to greet her, she was delighted to also find that their old friend Charlie had come out to join them.
Charlie was ancient, nobody knew exactly how old, but he was at least fifteen. These days, he was slow and slept a lot, but when he was younger, Charlie had been a frisky dog, full of mischief and high energy. Each day, nothing had tired him out. From first thing in the morning, to last thing at night, he’d be looking for something to do; he’d been a busy, boisterous dog in his time. This, however, had brought Charlie trouble and sorrow. Bought as a puppy by his first family, they’d showered him with love for the first few months; he’d enjoyed lots of games and walks and his memories of those days were good. Many a time in the park, Willow had listened to tales of his happy early days with his first family.
Then, after a year or so, Charlie’s walks had got less and less and the games had dwindled to nothing. Days went by when he’d be left at home for hours all alone, with little to do and no-one for company. Some days he felt he’d explode with boredom, and he once told Willow of a day when instead of exploding, he’d chewed up the skirting board in the lounge. This had got him into a lot of trouble, and tempers had erupted when his family returned and saw what he’d done. Not long after this incident, a lady had come to the house and taken him away with her. She was kind, and as she hugged Charlie tight their first night together, she’d told him that he’d be staying with her until his new family was found. This had mighty confused Charlie; why did he need a new family? What was wrong with his old one?
As the lady stroked and hugged him, he listened hard to what she told him, trying to understand what was happening. He knew he’d been bad for chewing the skirting board, but if he’d been for a walk that day he was certain he wouldn’t have done it. All he wanted was a walk and some company. He was a little sad as he never got to say goodbye to his family, but, the lady was nice and she took good care of him. Their days together were spent walking on the hills, and she taught him some fun tricks. Each day he was happy and tired, and never felt the urge to chew stuff left around the house. Especially not her skirting boards.
Then, one morning he woke up to find a new family was coming to take him to live by the sea. This family was a lot of fun for Charlie, he had long walks on the beach, and he tried rock pooling with them for the first time in his life. They seemed to like his boundless energy and encouraged his wild side. They were happy days. Until, one day, a baby arrived in the house. And once again, the family didn’t spend as much time with Charlie. The trips to the beach became rarer and shorter, no more dawdling in rock pools for Charlie. Once more, his days inside the house were long and boring. It felt ominously familiar to him. Only, this time, a lady didn’t take him away to her house, his family took him to a kennel.
When he’d sat in the park one chilly day last autumn and told Willow his life story, with deep sighs and sadness, he said he remembered well, the day he left the beach family. It was in the summer, the days were long and hot and the family took the baby off on their holiday abroad – without Charlie. He was in the kennel, waiting for their return and he wasn’t too worried, a little sad at being left behind, but he’d been there before and they always came back for him. Only, that summer, they didn’t. As the weeks passed, and the summer came to an end, he waited every day for his family to return. He woke every morning hoping it would be the day they came, but they never did. The staff in the kennels were kind to Charlie, but he longed for his old family to come and take him home and out to the beach again.
Many people came and looked at him while he stayed in the kennels, but no-one wanted him. He heard people saying he was a bit ugly, and old, which made him sad as he didn’t feel old, he just felt bored and lonely. He’d stayed for over a year in the kennels, and then, eight years ago Stuart and Di who lived in Kettlecroft Avenue had visited the kennel. Di had immediately fallen in love with Charlie’s sad face and taken him home with them.
Charlie told Willow that he’d done his best to be a good boy for Di and Stuart, he really didn’t want to go back to the kennel. Each morning he woke up, he hoped he was going to be allowed to stay. Di and Stuart certainly made lots of promises to him, they never seemed to tire of telling Charlie how much they loved him. After a long while, maybe a year or so, he let himself believe that they really meant it, and that he’d be staying with them for good. It all seemed a long time ago, a different lifetime in fact, and yet, these days they still promised him every day when they went to bed that he was their special boy and they loved him more than they could say. And he was there to stay, forever.
These days, all that was a distant memory as it was all he could do to potter over to the park, flop down on the grass and watch the youngsters enjoying themselves. It made him tingle with warmth to see them all running and having fun. It helped him to remember his days running on the beach and rock pooling. When Willow was a young puppy and had first met Charlie she’d been a little too lively for his liking and in his gentlemanly way he’d taught her to be a bit calmer around him and the other older dogs she met. His important lessons had helped her settle into the Kettlecroft Park gang. She loved being with the younger dogs and their chasing and running, but she often joined the older, quieter dogs to listen to their tales. Willow, always keen to learn, got along well with Charlie, she respected him and once she’d learnt not to rush up to him, but to save that high energy for her pal Sookie, she loved to sit and absorb Charlie’s wise words.
6
She laughed and danced with the thought of death in her heart.
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Hans Christian Andersen,
The Little Mermaid
Last night I slept badly. I never sleep well, there’s too much noise in the barn with dogs barking and crying, whining and whimpering, yipping and yapping. It’s hard to get comfortable on the concrete, but last night was worse than usual. My tummy ached with hunger and I couldn’t get my mind to rest. Memories kept creeping in, each time I was about to drop off to sleep, an image from the past came to me and jolted me awake.
My night time memories aren’t all bad, although most are. Last night my puppies came tip-toeing into my mind, bringing with them a moment of sweetness that I’d forgotten existed. As I let my exhausted self, drift into the memory, I saw once again, with my mind’s eye, their fresh, innocent faces. Tiny black features all squished up with eyes closed to the world.
Their days with me were spent feeding and sleeping, till their bright little eyes were ready to open and explore their small, new world. Eyes that blinked and struggled to open and close as the chinks of light coming through holes in the barn roof hit their startled unfamiliar gaze.
Their world was dull, with nothing to fill the days. But their wish to play was strong and together each litter would make the best of what they had, which was me and one another. There has never been anything else in this concrete pen for my puppies to play with. No toys. Nothing. It’s a barren start to life for puppies born here.
Last night, in the fleeting kind memories my mind allowed, I conjured visions of my pups playfully chewing one another’s ears, tumbling about together on the hard grubby floor, having fun in the only way they knew how. Those had been happy moments, set amid a mass of horribleness. And the dark cloak of bleak reality came, blotting out any traces of joy in my puppies’ lives as I remembered the filth of the floor, their tiny paws stepping into the smelly muck, poop and pee. It disgusts me to have to live, sleep, eat and toilet in the same small space but what choice do I have? Or my pups?
Every once in a while, suddenly, noisily the Man comes, banging into each pen in the barn, with the dreaded noise of spraying water. I hate those days, and I’m glad they are rare. When he gets to my cell, he doesn’t bother seeing where I am first, instead, he squirts in the powerful jet of cold water. If I get in the way, it’s just too bad. When I was young, I used to rush around the pen trying to dodge the hateful blast of cold water. I’d scuttle into the corners, flying from one concrete wall to the other, hating it when the force of the water caught me. Which it always did.
Then, as quickly as he arrives the Man goes, leaving the floor wet, still stinking of years of filth and muck. I don’t know why he bothers. I’m always left soggy and cold as there’s no escaping the spraying hose, however hard I might try. These days, although I’m terrified of being caught in the lethal force of the spray, I’m too weak to move fast, so stay where I am. I put up with the chilly drenching, and hope it will soon be over.
I look at myself and know that my coat is thick with the reek of my own waste and I hate myself for it. I know this is wrong, I know a dog should not live this way. When I was younger I tried cleaning myself as best I could. I’d pull with my teeth at the knots in my dull, grey fur which was caked in grime and poop. But now I’m so tired and weak, it’s hard to do it, and my teeth are sore and rotten and the effort is too much. I look down at my legs and see straggly long hair, clogged with knots and stained yellow with my pee. My feet are painful as my black nails have grown so long they are curling in and digging into my skin, I’m ashamed of the state I’m in. I wish my life was better. Or over.
Maybe it’s because I feel that my end might be close that my mind is filled with memories of my babies. All the many puppies I’ve given birth to in the long years I’ve spent in this place. I’ve loved them all for the short time they’ve been allowed to stay with me. I’ve fed and cared for each of them and cherished every single one. But I never got to see any of them happy for long, or to love them for more than a short while, as they’ve been taken from me, litter by litter and I’ve been left all alone once again. On my own with a heart filled with grief.
The first time the Man came and took away my puppies, I thought they’d be coming back to me. How could I know that I would never see them again and be left alone in the cell? Or that this would happen again and again to me through many years? And each time it happened my lonely heart would break a little more.
7
Life is more fun if you play games.
Roald Dahl, My Uncle Oswald
In Kettlecroft Park Willow’s birthday party was well underway. All her friends had turned out to enjoy themselves. Kai, a big, brown and white shaggy dog, and Alfie schnauzer, were racing around, running, chasing, lunging towards and away from each other with lightning speed. The rain of a few days earlier had made the grass soft. As they flung themselves around, they churned it up into a muddy mess, in turn, making themselves grubbier, and happier by the minute. They loved every muddy moment of their frolicking. Willow loved these games, but was less keen on being mucky than the others. But she still ran to and fro amid the big dogs’ boisterous activity, just managing to stay out from under their feet, as she barked noisy encouragement from the side-lines. When she’d had enough of that, she dashed, panting, over to her quieter friends who were pottering by the picnic table Tom had set out.
“Darcie, what you got there?” Willow asked her brindle coloured friend who was chewing something quite manky looking. Something dead and ripe, with a long, thin tail, Willow thought, as she got a little closer.
“Oh, sshhmmunfink I ppffound,” mumbled Darcie, grinding hard on whatever it was she’d found on the ground, over by the iron-gate as she’d come in. With the ‘something’ half in, half out of her mouth, she turned her head away from Willow, gave one last big crunch with her strong staffie jaws and swallowed whatever it had been.
“That was good. Found it as I came in, think it might have been a rat, not sure, hard to tell the state it was in. Haven’t had one of them for a bit,” said Darcie, turning back with a grin.
“A rat?” Willow asked, bewildered by her friend’s culinary tastes. Darcie was always on the scrounge for something to eat, but foraging for rats felt a bit too odd. Willow knew that cats ate mice and rats, but did dogs? Darcie was renowned as the ‘Kettlecroft Guzzler’ and gobbled up anything she found. And she never seemed to be any the worse for wear; she’d never had a day of illness in her life.
“Tough as old boots, soft as a pudding,” Colin, her human friend always said when people were alarmed at her gobbling up all kinds of rubbish around the park.
Willow hoped that Tom had put her cake somewhere safely out of Darcie’s reach. She feared she’d be left with none for herself once Darcie got a taste of its fishy deliciousness.
“Hang on, hang on,” Darcie suddenly said, moving her shoulders wide, her back legs a little wider. A weird look passed over her face, and just as Willow started to feel worried at her friend’s unusual stance and staring look,
BBBRRRRUUURRRRRRP!
… up came a belch from the depths of Darcie’s strong, stocky body. The stench knocked Willow back a step.
“Wow! You ok?” she asked, as Darcie took a gulp of air.
“That’s better,” Darcie smiled, pleased to have cleared the noxious gas from her gut. “Hhhm. Rat. Yep, definitely rat, now I remember, same thing happened before. Terrible for making me fart too,” she said, resting her bottom down on the grass, next to Daisy-Mae, who, looking down her nose, edged her perfect white, neatly clipped form a little away from the brown squat shape she now found plonked down next to her.
She’d have preferred Darcie not to be sat quite so close; it wasn’t that she disliked Darcie, but Daisy-Mae knew Darcie had a tendency to suddenly get up and violently shake herself, spraying dirt, old hair, and spittle far and wide. She didn’t want to be near Darcie when that happened, no thank you. She most certainly
didn’t want traces of whatever Darcie shook out getting stuck in her poodle curls. So, she’d soon subtly manoeuvre herself away from the risk area. It would be rude to make it obvious, and as she really wanted some of that cake everyone was talking about, she’d best not chance upsetting Willow, who loved everyone, including farting, burping, messy Darcie.
“I really don’t know what fun they have getting themselves so filthy,” sniffed Daisy-Mae, looking across at the ever darkening coats of the two big dogs, still bouncing around in the distance. “All that yucky mud,” she sighed, taking a step away from Darcie while looking down at her own neatly clipped, pristine white legs. She placed each of her tidy paws carefully on the greenest, driest spot of grass she could find.
She was always the same, Willow thought. Daisy-Mae hated her paws being wet, muddy, cold or dirty. Hated anyone else being any of those too. She was a little on the uptight side for a dog. She was also never seen out on days that weren’t dry and clear, she couldn’t risk a spot of dirt blotting her well preened appearance. Willow was mighty surprised to see she’d turned up to the party.
“Didn’t think you’d come today,” she said to her spotless friend, “thought it might be too messy for you?”
“It’s your birthday, course I’d come,” Daisy-Mae replied, smoothly. “Wasn’t going to miss having a piece of the famous birthday cake,” she added, her tiny pink tongue delicately licking her neat black lips.
“Me neither,” Darcie chimed in, releasing a smelly puff of trapped wind as she stood up. She was ready to hunt the cake.
“Shall we call them over for some cake?” Patsy asked Tom, who was stood chatting with Mrs Baker. At that moment, her dog Ollie was in a game of tag with a saucy black crow. Each time it touched down on the grass, Ollie – straining every Jack Russell sinew in his body – sprinted across the ground towards the bird. On, on, on he ran, his white body a blur of determination. Then, just as he was within a nose’s reach, up flew the bird cackling with delight at the tease it had pulled off once again, before swooping down a short distance away from a panting Ollie.
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